Rebel Island (Tres Navarre #7)(25)

I turned Chris’s room inside out. I didn’t learn much. His stuff smelled of salt water and suntan lotion. He wore size 32 jeans. He liked extra-large cotton T-shirts. He had a picture of Waikiki Beach taped on his dresser mirror. There was a surfboard behind his closet door. Next to his bed was a guitar case—nothing inside but a Yamaha acoustic and the lyrics to an old Nirvana song on a piece of crumpled notebook paper.

No weapons. No duffel bags full of money. I found no evidence that he’d been packing. The closet was full of clothes. His toiletries were all there.

In all, it seemed to be the room of a fairly simple guy who liked to surf and had taken a job that allowed him the time to do it.

Too simple. Almost always, there was something interesting to be found in anyone’s personal space…I called it the jalapeño factor. You had to have that little slice of spice on the nacho.

I sat on Chris’s bed and pondered that. Outside, the storm intensified. Wind battered the walls. The plywood on the window bowed in and out with a hollow popping noise.

Had I checked the bed?

I knelt down and I slipped my hand between the mattress and the box springs. My fingers brushed against a book, and I brought out Chris Stowall’s diary.

I was about midway through reading it—far enough to realize I had trouble on my hands—when the college guys burst into the bedroom, Ty followed by Chase and Markie.

The good news was that Ty had found his gun. The bad news was he was pointing it at me.

“You bastard,” he said. “You wrecked the boat?”

“Ty, put the gun down.”

Now that his friends had caught up with him, they didn’t seem to know what to do. They had their hands out, crouching like they were about to catch a ball.

“Dude,” Chase said, “I tried to explain—”

“Shut up!” Ty said. “You helped him. You told me I could leave in fifteen minutes!”

“Ty, listen to the storm,” I said. “You couldn’t have gone anywhere. The wind’s already too strong.”

I didn’t try to stand. I didn’t look at the gun. I kept my eyes on Ty’s, because I knew that was the best way to keep him from firing at me. Not a great way, mind you, but the best.

“You sank the boat.” Ty’s voice trembled. “You trapped me in this place with…with a goddamn killer. I’m gonna—”

That’s when Markie hit him on the back of the head. Ty crumpled and Chase tried to catch him without much luck. Ty landed facedown on the carpet between the dresser and the bed. Markie pounced on the pistol. I checked Ty’s head. He’d been hit in just the right spot to knock him out—directly behind the ear.

I looked up at Markie. “Sap your friends often?”

He opened his fist and showed it to me. “Sorry, dude. No choice.”

“You always carry a roll of quarters?”

“Pretty much,” he said. “You never know.”

Ty moaned.

“Find him a place to lie down,” I told them. “Not in here. And get him some ice.”

“Guess I messed up,” Chase murmured, “telling him about the boat.”

Markie snorted. “You guys are whacked, wrecking the only way off the island.”

“The killer may have been planning to use the boat,” I said. “I don’t want him to have options.”

Markie studied me. “Dude, you ever hear about cornering wild animals?”

Once the guys had dragged Ty away, I finished reading Chris Stowall’s journal. He wasn’t a prolific diarist. The entries were sometimes six months apart. Then he would write daily for a week. Then he’d lose interest again. He wrote about wave conditions. He made plans to move to Hawaii, where he’d apparently been once before on spring break. He had dreams of taking some girl named Amy there. They’d start a surf shop. At the bottom of the entry, he wrote: I wish it was Lane.

No explanation.

He made some vague references to a brother, whom he affectionately called “the psycho.” He drew pictures of seagulls and guitars. He wrote lines that might’ve been song lyrics. They were pretty bad.

He also talked a lot about Alex Huff, and how much they hated each other. According to Chris, Alex went on drinking binges about once a month. If there were guests on the island, Chris would have to scramble to keep Alex out of sight. Sometimes Alex left the island for days at a time and wouldn’t tell anyone where he was going. When he was drunk, he’d get paranoid. He’d accuse Chris of snooping around his room, embezzling the hotel’s money.

I’d quit, Chris wrote, except I owe the bastard. I’m scared what he might do if I left. Maybe one more time, and I’ll have enough to get out of here.

I read that last line several times. I didn’t like it.

The final entry seemed to contradict the earlier one. It was dated last April. It read: He wants to sell the hotel. He thinks he can just walk away. He can’t do this to me.

In the middle of the diary, stuck between two pages, was a folded printout of an email. The date was May 5, exactly one month ago. The sender was a U.S. Marshal named Berry. I knew him vaguely. He was a higher-up in the West Texas District, based in San Antonio. Roughly speaking, he was Jesse Longoria’s boss. The only time I’d met Berry, we’d discussed a deal to get a client of mine into the witness protection program.